


Wicked Game

by inber



Series: Inber's Geralt x Jaskier x Reader Fanfiction [4]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternative Lifestyles, Come Eating, Comeplay, Dom/sub, F/M, Femdom, Kinky, M/M, Multi, Not Canon Compliant, Oil, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Out of Character, Overstimulation, Public Hand Jobs, Punishment, Threesome - F/M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:15:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23592925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inber/pseuds/inber
Summary: This is a bit of an offshoot in the series. Geralt dominates your relationship, but what happens when Jaskier misbehaves? You are entrusted with teaching him a lesson.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Reader, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Reader, Jaskier | Dandelion/Reader
Series: Inber's Geralt x Jaskier x Reader Fanfiction [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1698223
Comments: 4
Kudos: 125





	Wicked Game

Jaskier was being a shit, and he knew it.

“You’re going to piss Geralt off, my love.” You whispered, out of the corner of your mouth.

“He’s _already_ pissing Geralt off.” The Witcher spoke in a growl, atop Roach. You shot a look at Jaskier, walking beside him on the road, but he carried on as though neither of you had spoken.

“I’m just _saying_ that it’s terribly convenient that ‘Geralt’ and ‘Swearalt’ rhyme. Y’know, considering his terrible penchant for cursing like a dock-worker? Let’s see – _When a humble bard, was forced to ride along, with Swearalt of—_ “

Geralt stopped Roach. You visibly winced, aware that the act of doing so meant the Witcher was not in the mood to play. Even worse, he dismounted; you obediently laced your fingers behind your back and lowered your head submissively, although you were not at fault. Jaskier was grinning.

“It’d be too easy to punish you, songbird.” Geralt’s voice was the slice of stone on a mountain, a landslide of a threat, “Because I know you _want_ me to.”

Jaskier’s expressive hands twitched ever-so slightly, a tell that the Witcher was correct. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about, my strong, handsome–”

Geralt cut him off before he could flow into an endless list of flattering adjectives. “Kittens like to play with birds.” He observed, stroking the line of your jaw; you nuzzled automatically into his tender touch. “Don’t they?”

“Yes, they do.” You answered, all doe eyes, the spectre of a smile haunting your lips.

“Geralt…?” Jaskier queried, suddenly uncertain, eyeing the interaction between the two of you.

“I will let our kitten punish you in lieu of me, then.” He decided, and the smirk he levelled at the bard hinted at all kinds of debauchery. With that, he turned on his heels, and strode back to Roach to mount her.

“Wait, I mean– Geralt, my darling heart…” Nervously, he peered at you. You were still standing to attention, posture-perfect, that leather collar nicely oiled around the column of your throat. But now you were beaming. “…Ah, _fuck._ ”

—————

The event you were to attend was not to Geralt’s taste – he hated balls (that didn’t belong to Jaskier, anyway), but his mood was somewhat lifted by the fact that you were now clearly scheming. You fussed with the fit of his jacket, swearing his biceps had gotten bigger since you’d had the garment made, and buttoned some simple gold cuff-links on his shirt. “They match your eyes.” You told him, smiling, and he chuckled roughly, leaning down to kiss you tenderly.

You felt something foreign; the release of your collar. In a panic, you went to grab it, and realised he’d undone the lock. Without it you felt rather naked, and your pulse began to climb.

“Just for tonight, kitten.” He whispered, capturing your gaze; you saw the blaze of adoration in the fossil-amber of his eyes, and it bolstered you. He trusted you. He was giving you leave; tonight, you became less ‘kitten’ and more ‘tigress’. A smile blossomed on your lips like an early peony peeking petals bravely into the light of a spring morning. You pressed a kiss to the palm of his hand.

“I’ll make you proud.” You promised, and he nodded. Jaskier exited the bathroom, a towel low-slung on his hips; you traced the dark scruff of his chest hair hungrily, and he aimed a cocky wink in your direction.

“See something you like, darling girl?” He asked, “Why not help me get dressed, too?”

“Actually, Jaskier,” Geralt half-turned, “She’s to dress in her own room tonight. We’ll meet her downstairs.”

You flirted with the bard with a flick of your eyes beneath the veil of your lashes, and then you were slipping from the room, trying not to giggle as you heard Jaskier’s weak babble of protest in your wake.

—————

It was strange to have assistance dressing, and even stranger to have such a fine gown to wear. You were more comfortable in plainer dresses, still sewed impeccably – because Jaskier always insisted – but you followed your two masters, never seeking to steal the spotlight from either. Tonight, however, you were pampered and pinned and poked and powdered. Most of the time you squeezed your eyes shut and tried not to be a hindrance, attempting to help where you could until the maids chased your hands away and insisted you sit still.

When they were finished, they dipped in a curtsy to you – _to you!_ – and you stepped in slippered feet to peek tentatively into the mirror.

The woman reflected in the surface of the glass was so foreign to you that you had to wave your hands to make sure she wasn’t an illusion. Your hair was twisted into a beautiful, complicated updo, dotted with jewels; you were too frightened to touch it for fear that you’d upset the artistic arrangement. A dark crimson lipstick had been brushed onto your mouth, accenting your cupid’s bow, complimenting the gown that Geralt had obviously chosen for you. You were reminded of a venomous spider, a gothic creature that lured prey into a carefully woven web; the black of the gown was positively sinful, long-sleeved and seemingly modest until you turned around to reveal the way it clung possessively to the curve of your backside, flaring in a small train behind you. The material was cut out deeply, revealing the skin of your back entirely and ending in a scoop just above the peach of your rear. From the shoulders, strands of strung jewels that were similar to those placed in your hair hung in graceful loops, gently clicking together when you moved, hanging in a succession of ever-lower ropes. The embellishment and the makeup removed any need for flashy accessories.

You laughed wildly for a moment, giddy, wondering if you could even do this. You looked like you could murder a man and use his corpse as a foot-stool whilst you ate dinner. It was perfection.

Jaskier was _not_ prepared.

—————

“What’s she going to do?” The bard quipped, trying to hide his nerves in the rim of a cup of wine, “Kiss me to death? Sit in my lap and…” He paused, frowning, “Actually, that _would_ cause problems.”

“I think you underestimate her, my love.” Geralt purred, although his expression remained impassive. He was at the ball by request, after all; the queen who had invited you was worried about an assassination threat. Geralt had assured you all that no such threat existed, and he’d taken the job because the payment was far too good to refuse. Easy money – now that he had secured entertainment.

As if summoned by that thought, you appeared at the top of the stairs.

You held your head high and descended with elegance, slowly, as though you’d been born into a cradle carved from ivory; you were an absolute domina that didn’t exercise mercy freely, a fluid femme-fatale with a secret body count and a menagerie of mystery locked behind your heavily kohl-lined eyes. By the time you reached the middle of the staircase, the conversation had lulled just enough for you to know that many eyes were upon you, but only Geralt would be truly aware of your nerves, of the rapid beat of your heart. You could feel the weight of his stare upon you, proud, and it warmed you with joy. At the bottom of the steps, you held one poised hand at your breast, and slid into an elegant curtsy of recognition for the table of nobility hosting the soiree. Once you had done so, the chatter began to pick up again, and your eyes sought the table at which your beloved boys were seated.

Geralt looked hungry, and you recognised the appreciative quirk in his small smile. But Jaskier. Gods.

You’d never seen him look so utterly _feral_.

His hand was clutching his wine cup so tightly that his knuckles had turned white. The carefree sky of his eyes had vanished to cloud in a storm of desire, the darkness of his pupils consuming. His chest was a rapid rise and fall with the increase of his breath, and you thought he might cross the room to throw you over his shoulder and march back up the stairs, were it not for Geralt’s commanding hand on his thigh. As you slunk over to join them, the beads at your back pleasantly tinkling, he devoured your every movement with an obsessive stare. You pretended not to notice, knowing that he would be unable to smell your arousal, and took a seat with stately poise beside him.

“Geralt,” You greeted, the salt-husk of your voice no longer an act, “Jaskier.”

“Why are you _wearing that dress_ other men will _see you_ in that dress I can _see everything_ in that dress Geralt _why did you–_ ” The bard’s words tumbled out, low and vicious; you saw Geralt’s hand squeeze his thigh, and you took his chin in-between your fingers to silence him. He looked as though he might bite you.

“Hush now, darling.” You growled, “I wear what I like tonight, and I _do_ as I like tonight. Do you understand me?”

The flash of emotion that rocketed through his cyclone gaze was a delicious lightning show for you to watch. He knew he was being punished. And he knew that if he didn’t comply, it’d be all the worse for him. Eventually, the eye of the storm appeared, even though you could feel the tenseness of his musculature in the line of his jaw.

“I understand.” He muttered, and your saccharine smile was a slow answer, a promise, the rattle of a snake’s warning.

“Wonderful.” Picking up the napkin at your place, you unfolded it and placed it carefully in your lap. “Gods, the bards – I suppose they only had coin for you, Geralt.” You wrinkled your nose. Even though he was being corrected, Jaskier straightened his spine at the praise.

“Hmm.” Geralt agreed. You felt a hand at your lower back, teasing the hem and the bare skin there; you recognised the callouses, and tried not to shiver. _Jaskier._

“Don’t remember giving you permission to touch, darling heart.” You sing-songed, without looking up from your drink, sipping the wine. Oh, he was so unused to submitting to you. As if burnt, he withdrew the touch, and you heard the click of his teeth as he pinched them together.

“Forgive me, kitten,” He mumbled, “I forgot, for a moment.”

You leaned into him, purposefully brushing your clothed breasts against his forearm, feeling him flinch in reaction. The hot wash of your breath tickled his earlobe, and he could smell the lavender and citrus that clung to your skin. “Do not _forget_ again.” You warned, “And I am not ‘kitten’ tonight.” Slowly, you sat back again, and saw the part of his beautiful red lips, the flush of his cheeks. “I am ’ _Mistress_ ’.”

He gathered his own napkin in one hand, fisting the cloth. Geralt rumbled in a low chuckle.

The first course of your dinner was served, fresh melon and sliced prosciutto followed by a bland sorbet; you ate and conversed with others at your table, laughing at a nobleman’s tale, playing up your interest in a knight’s story about a heroic battle that you had absolutely no desire to hear, flirting with your eyes and your smile. The entire time you ignored Jaskier, who pushed his food around and glared at the men that dared to engage you. Geralt was aloof, keeping a watchful eye on the party, fending off questions asked of his own feats with his signature grunt or a simple, steady look.

When the second course arrived – roasted suckling pig with a berry compote – you slid your hand underneath the tablecloth, up the length of Jaskier’s inner thigh. He jumped, and nearly spilled the entire jug of wine he was grabbing. You didn’t so much as afford him a side-long glance; you merely slid your clever fingers between his legs and squeezed, feeling the raging heat of his erection through the cloth of his breeches. Had he been hard for you this entire time? The idea thrilled you.

He leaned into you, and hoarsely whispered, “ _Here?_ ”

You laughed as though he’d told a terribly clever joke, touching his shoulder gently with your free hand. Your other one, beneath the secrecy of the gold-embroidered tablecloth, began to dexterously unlace his pants. He bit back a small noise as his cock sprang free, aching and already weeping precome at the reddened slit. You withdrew your touch, and the relief must have been obvious on his face.

But you were simply reaching for a small vial strapped at your thigh in a garter. As you used your fork with your left hand, you popped off the cork with your right, and let the oil drip into your palm.

Jaskier jumped again at the return of your hand, now slick, as it stroked firmly up the slight curve of his hardness, mapping out every pulsing vein with slippery fingertips. “Hiccups.” He explained as the knight glanced at him in question; the bard flushed and pretended to cough, patting his chest.

Meanwhile, you stroked him in a slow, steady rhythm; you could not pump his cock quickly without giving the game away, so you kept the sheath of your hand tight instead, drawing it up and down agonisingly slow. For a moment he forgot where he was and thrust his hips forward, forced to disguise a moan into his wine.

“Enjoying the food, darling?” You asked innocently, letting your thumb swirl around the crown of Jaskier’s dick. He was actually _dripping_ precome onto the floor in a long, sticky strand, and you could feel the tightness of his legs as he resisted the urge to rut forward again. You saw Geralt shift, saw the predator in his eyes, and knew that he was witnessing everything. Another rush of wetness soaked your undergarments.

“Delicious.” He managed to hiss, as he leaned closer to you, the huff of his breath whispered, “ _Mistress._ ”

You licked your lips and picked up your wine, sipping it, never ceasing the stroke.

When the servants cleared the plates – Jaskier’s untouched – you could feel him throbbing thickly in your palm, advertising the fact that he was not far from climax. He had stopped participating in the conversation, focusing on not making a face or any noise as he endured your tantalising torment. You knew he was going to come when he turned his face to you, seeking the shadow of your neck to bury his moans in – and that was when you released him.

He stared at you incredulously, but again you ignored him, letting your oil-and-precome glistening hand rest between you. As the plates were placed down – some sort of game bird, roasted, with glazed vegetables – you heard him whimper. It was such a delightful sound that you had to grin. “Please.” He growled, lowly; you poured more wine.

“Geralt, that new horse of yours,” You conversed over the bard, who was blushing furiously, the tips of his ears dark red, the flush spreading down to the peek of his chest hair, “Are you having much luck training him?”

There was no horse; the trio of you knew you were speaking of Jaskier. The Witcher grunted.

“None. He’s stubborn, can’t be broken.”

“Pity.” You mused, picking at some of the meat, “Do you think you should be… more _lenient_ upon him?”

“Absolutely _not._ ” Geralt growled, the tines of his fork sliding between the pearl of his teeth as he chewed a mouthful, “He should know a firm hand.”

“ **Gods.** ” Jaskier burst out, and everyone at the table looked at him. He flustered. “I-I mean, just… the poor horse.”

“Horses should have a strict owner.” The noblewoman sat next to her husband agreed, “They can be such ill-mannered creatures.”

“Can’t they just?” You trilled, as your hand curled back around Jaskier’s aching cock. He’d had enough time to calm down, and you resumed your cruel handjob, dipping your fingers into his breeches to massage his balls. They were tight, pulled against his body, desperate for release.

The idle chatter continued as plates were cleared away once again; you had to stop towards the end of the course because Jaskier choked on a sip of wine when you’d let the smallest scrape of your nail brush the pronounced ridge of his cockhead. You wished you could see it, darkened with the pressure of his blood, twitching with his raging pulse.

Dessert was served; cinnamon buns decorated with plentiful stripes of icing. It was too perfect. You glanced at Geralt, and he was grinning at you, all-knowing. Again you began to stroke Jaskier, this time with a faster hand.

Everyone around you was drunk and oblivious to proper conversation at this point, as people abandoned their food in favour of dancing; the bards began to play louder, and there were cheers as popular songs were sung. You could afford to properly lavish Jaskier’s cock with your touch, stimulating the sensitive glans of him with your index and thumb, feeling him begin to peak again against the dripping flesh of your hot hand.

“Oh Gods _oh fuck_ I’m sorry _I’m sorry,_ please just, _please_ just let me _come, Mistress._ ” He huffed out between strained breath, leaning into you, too low for anyone but you and Geralt to hear. You could feel the tremble of his body, knew the ache he was feeling in every fuck-teased muscle. You make a low purr in response, and released him again. He groaned in agony, as you cupped your hand beneath the slit of his flared cock-head.

“Do it then, my love,” You nibbled his earlobe, “Come for your mistress. Come _all over_ my hand, in front of _all these_ people, like the worked-up _slut_ that you are.”

And helplessly, he did.

You curled his head into your shoulder to muffle the shout he couldn’t help but make, feeling the explosive streams of his come pour over your ready hand as he climaxed without the need for your touch, pushed so far beyond breaking point that his orgasm was a physical and mental experience. His moaning was disguised by the merriment, but you could feel it vibrate against your skin; he completely coated your fingers, your palm, and you felt his seed drip from your hand. When he was finally spent he was shivering, and you cooed, your free hand running through his chestnut hair. Geralt was making a low snarl, his cat-gold eyes narrowed as he watched the depravity with desire.

You withdrew your hand from under the table, and made a show of licking it clean, moaning as you did. “This icing is delightful.”

“Can’t get enough of it!” The nobleman agreed, eating his own dessert with enthusiasm.

Jaskier watched you clean his seed from your hand with the most love-drunk, euphoric expression you’d ever seen on his boyish face. You held his gaze as you did so, and then you wiped your saliva-slick hand on a napkin. He leaned forward and kissed you suddenly; you make a squeak of surprise, before you gleefully shared the taste of his own pleasure with him, spiked with cinnamon and sugar. When you parted, his mouth was dark with your lipstick.

“Our time here is up.” Geralt announced, and you heard the tightness of his voice. “We were to stay during dinner, no longer than that.”

“Shame.” You mused, feeling Jaskier make himself decent beside you, “I would have liked more dessert.”

“We’ll have some brought to the room.” The Witcher growled, standing; he took your hand, and you rose, too. Jaskier stumbled ever-so slightly, but he followed.

On the way back to your quarters, Jaskier’s hand cupped the curve of your rear, and you squealed. “You are in _so much trouble with me,_ kitten.” He snarled, and you beamed in response.

“Neigh, I say.” You quipped; Geralt laughed.

This time Jaskier did pick you up, tossing you over his broad shoulder with ease as he strode quickly down the corridor to your room. The entire way, you giggled with abandon.


End file.
